


Hanzo Shimada: Backup Santa

by ShahHira



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Healing from Hanzo's past, Introspection, M/M, Noodle Dragons, Overwatch is one big family, Winston and Hanzo are bros, except THEY'RE HUGE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-17 02:53:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9300878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShahHira/pseuds/ShahHira
Summary: When Christmas celebrations are foiled, it's up to Hanzo to save the holidays with his two best friends/wingdragons





	1. Finding Family

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be more funny, but Hanzo thinks too much and McCree doesn't want to think about things. But don't worry, we all know that (not so) deep down, Hanzo’s just a big pile of fluff and he has too many emotions to keep bottled up. Also don't let the tags fool you, the stars of the show are really the dragons ofc
> 
> I had to add Winston here because while I hate dealing with him in-game (including Bastion) I can't dispute that they are sweet cinnamon rolls who have done their best in the animations.
> 
> No, I am NOT waiting until next Christmas to post this, this idea bit me so hard it couldn't wait another year.
> 
> Dedicated to a lovely group of random people I met on aracade mode 2 days ago on Overwatch. We all decided not to kill anyone and we had the best time of our lives sitting around, emoting, and (eventually) talking about mchanzo, best match 10/10

Living in snowy Hanamura, Hanzo is not accustomed to balmy weather in the middle of December.

So the shiver surprises him when Hanzo is returning to his room late at night, after completing his usual, strictly regimented training session he prides himself on. The sweat he’s worked up that clings lightly to his loose clothing signals a welcome break in the monotony between missions; while he is grateful to be granted some relaxation in the new life that’s been thrust upon him ever since he’s joined Overwatch, the restlessness in his bones only grows stronger with time. Lately, a few of the agents had plans to go home and celebrate the holidays with their loved ones, so the gym has had a lot more vacancies than when it was at normal capacity.

Hanzo is glad at least a few of his coworkers have a place to call home that is _not_ an illegally-sanctioned military base. Suffice to say, he is not one of them.

A burst of familiar laughter echoes down the quiet hallway. Hanzo stops short at the intersection of the two paths, looking down the way opposite to the path he normally takes to his quarters. In the distance, there’s a doorway ajar leaking soft yellow light into the blue-lit hallway. Focusing, he hears murmurs of muted conversation. It only takes a few moments of deliberation before curiosity tugs at his tired muscles as he begins to tread slowly towards the door.

Placing a hand on the cool metal doorway Hanzo squints through the bright light, eyes not yet adjusted from the dark corridor. Another, deeper chuckle trickles out into the hallway. Who could be awake at this hour?

 “Agent Shimada is at the door.”

The door whooshes open, and Hanzo belatedly realizes it’s Athena’s voice, giving away his position. Hanzo balks, halfway ready to turn around and bolt, until he spots Winston in the back.

“Oh, Mr. Shimada! This is… unexpected.” The scientist quickly gets up and lumbers up to him, seemingly just as flustered by the announcement, if the amount his glasses are dangerously titled is anything to go by. Behind him are an assortment of boxes, baubles of various sizes, and countless varieties of wrapping paper all littering the floor. In the other corner of the room, there are tools surrounding what seems to be a sleigh with wheels. Winston himself has seen better days; his fur looks like he’s run his hands through it numerous times, making little tufts stick up in random directions.

Hanzo hooks his bow around his quiver to free up his hands, taking the room in. “It looks like I have disturbed you from your… project. I was merely passing by and wished to investigate further.” Hanzo had merely presumed the scientist was busy the past few weeks, but not on something such as… whatever this is.

Winston gives a low chuckle. “Ah, nothing escapes your attention, Mr. Shimada. This is just something I like to do for the agents of Overwatch. I just… get into a role a little too much,” he gives a bashful smile.

Winston explains Watchpoint’s annual Christmas party tradition, organized almost exclusively by the scientist himself. Hanzo recalls Winston’s normal enthusiasm and good cheer that suddenly multiplied by tenfold when December hit, in which the base would steadily succumb to fairy lights draped across consoles and fur-lined stockings covering the doors of each agent; regardless of whether or not they celebrated any holiday, if Hanzo thought Satya’s bemused frown was anything to go by.

Winston beams his trademark too-toothy smile, obviously proud of this particular accomplishment. “I uh, know that practically everyone knows, but try not to tell anyone! It’s an open secret.”

Hanzo cannot help to find it an endearing, if frivolous, undertaking; though, however other agents spend their downtime is not his concern. He gives him his word and bids him farewell.

It’s only when he’s back in his room and the restlessness is still consuming him that Hanzo realizes he should have at least offered to help, considering the scope of the solitary endeavor Winston was making on behalf of all the agents present. It would have only been polite, and if Hanzo understood anything it was hospitality, especially one as deserving as Winston, for all the things he did not have to do for someone such as Hanzo.

But he just stows away his bow and quiver, exhaustion creeping up his shoulders, and gets ready for bed. Perhaps another time.

______

It’s a few days before Christmas, and Hanzo cannot find Winston anywhere. Eventually, he stops and asks Lena, who’s cheerily zipping around the base.

“Oh, the big guy? Yeah, something urgent came up late last night out in Morocco. He went to check it out with Mrs. Amari. She insisted she’d be fine on her own, but it required his expertise or something like that.” Lena shifts on her feet, unable to stand still.

“That is unfortunate,” Hanzo says.

Lena smiles reassuringly, though it seems a bit tight. “I know we were all looking forward to what Winston might have in store for us this year. Guess we’ll just have to wait for next Christmas.”

She gives him her signature jaunty salute before taking her leave. Standing in the main common area, Hanzo is suddenly struck by the realization that this is the quietest Watchpoint’s halls have been since he arrived.

He looks off to where Lena has blinked away. Perhaps not so cheery after all, Hanzo concludes.

______

Hanzo is again walking back to his quarters from the gym, except this time he has McCree to thank for an uncharacteristically unfulfilling workout.

As much as he tries to put it out of his thoughts, Hanzo wonders if the cowboy has become increasingly absent with each passing day or if it’s just his imagination. Still, McCree’s “I’m just not feeling up to it, partner” left Hanzo in the perplexing position of having an inexplicable desire to shake the slouch out of his shoulders and whatever miserable funk McCree’s been carrying lately in an attempt at cheering the man up.

Hanzo huffs as he turns the corner, grip tight on his bow. With Christmas drawing closer on top of Winston’s sudden absence, everyone is not necessarily unhappy, but a strange mood settles on Watchpoint all the same and Hanzo does not like it one bit. It’s not good for morale, he huffs. It’s not good for McCree, either.

He just so happens to glance up right as he passes the room he had encountered Winston in a few days ago. The place looks just as cluttered as before, a mess of ornaments and gaudy things that somehow make people happy. Hanzo could let December 25th come and go without batting an eye on the date (and he has, numerous times in his ten-year exile) but…

This year he has Genji. This year he has a meaning to his life, a purpose he needs to fulfill. He has Overwatch, and the assortment of agents who have shown kindness to him when he did not deserve kindness. A wave of determination hits him hard.

Overwatch has been the first thing in years that started to feel close to something like family. So…

So he guesses now would be the time to offer some of that help to Winston.

“Athena, if I could ask for your assistance…”

______

Hanzo spends the day before Christmas Eve resting in anticipation for what he’s planned. At the turn of midnight – when he’s confident the agents that stayed behind for the holidays have all cleared out the common area – the Christmas tree, the decorations, practically anything lying around that he could use in sprucing up the place takes the better part of the night in perfecting it just the way Hanzo wanted. Second best is just not his style.

He spends the rest of the night deep in meditation, unable to ignore the chatter of his dragons that suddenly picked up when he was weighing how best to move the yet unfinished sleigh.

______

“We would be done quicker if you would stop squirming...”

Hanzo has never seen his dragons squirm, but these are extraordinary circumstances as he gives the fuzzy antlers yet another adjustment, settling snugly on the crown of the dragon’s head. Unfortunately, it was the only pair that he had salvaged from the recesses of a lone storage unit – scuffed and well-loved judging by the coarse fur, but satisfactory enough to serve its purpose. The dragon snorts in his face as he reaches up.

Grimacing, Hanzo scolds, “Don’t be like that, this was your idea.” This close to his dragon, there are no emotions that do not resonate strongly under his touch: annoyance – for silly human traditions, of course – apathy which for the most part is feigned, suppressed curiosity.

Still, the shimmering blue dragon practically whines like a puppy as Hanzo tries to wrap tinsel around their body. He promptly gives up and settles for attaching a simple bell around their neck.

Hanzo looks at his dragons, mildly amazed at himself that he followed through with such a harebrained idea even Genji would be proud of. He reminds himself he’s not doing this for his own amusement (as if anyone was convinced his humor goes this low) but for his teammates. They’ve sensed exactly what he needs, even if he himself did not realize it.

A pit of nervousness settles in his stomach. The dragons lean in, bumping their heads against his chest and Hanzo hands instinctively go to rub their snout. The bond goes both ways; they feel all that he feels, too.

Shame fills him as his dragons talk to him. “I know. It has been a long time. I have not summoned you outside of battle for years. There is no excuse for the time we have endured disconnected.” His tattoo glows as he asks a difficult request. “Please forgive me.”

It’s a step he’s beginning to learn to take thanks to Genji, learning to ask for forgiveness on his own terms. The day Genji revealed himself to Hanzo at the shrine in Hanamura for the first time in years was shocking, but the automatic forgiveness from his long-thought dead brother was too much for him to process and he lashed out. Now that he has time to reflect, Hanzo is making small yet meaningful steps to make amends at his own pace, starting with his dragons.

 A foreign yet familiar warmth he hasn’t felt since that fateful day in Hanamura suffuses him and he stands straight, looking his dragon in the eye. Smirking, he gives them a once-over.

“But is this _really_ the first impression you want to make with Overwatch…” A loud, unimpressed mewl drowns out the rest of his teasing, and he trails off in a chuckle. He jingles the bell playfully. It’s like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. “I urge you to reconsider…”

Before his hand gets bitten off, Hanzo jogs to their side and lifts himself up upon their back, legs slotting on either side, muscle memory from times long past taking over. It feels natural to be here. He calls over his shoulder to the other, “Do not forget the bag–”

The rest of the sentence lodges in his throat as his breath is taken away by the dragons soaring into the morning light. Wind whizzing past him at incredible speeds, he squeezes his eyes shut, a feeling not unlike the radiant glow from before overcomes him. For the first time in a while, good memories come unbidden.

The dragons fly high into the sky, Watchpoint becoming a speck of brown buildings below. Slowing down, they level off just above the clouds, the serpentine body swaying to a steady beat. From up here, it feels like Hanzo is back in Hanamura, young and eager to test the ancestral spirit’s might, relishing the feel of being on top of the world, two new companions by his side. Before what he had known came crashing around him...

Bringing himself back into the present, Hanzo pats the dragon’s neck. “Let’s…” Clearing his throat, he shakes his head and tries again, “Let’s go deliver some presents.” The dragons begin their descent.

______

Lúcio is the first to spot him, and he’s thankful for the man’s wholehearted enthusiasm to put him at ease, digging through the big red bag as Lúcio watches on with open curiosity.

“Holy shit! You’re a real Santa, Mr. Shimada!” Hanzo smiles gratefully under the encouragement.

He gains more confidence as he meets more people throughout the day: catching 76 and Hana as they run errands, Dr. Zeigler and Dr. Zhou knee-deep in mounds of detailed research papers, Reinhardt washing dishes in the kitchen. He finds partners to the mounds of presents Winston somehow had set aside enough time to get a gift for each agent.

The news spreads. In the late afternoon when the weather turns cool, Genji runs up to greet him.

“Brother! Where is my present?”

Well, more like demand his share, if the look he’s giving the dragons is anything to go by. Zenyatta is right behind him, acknowledging Hanzo with a nod.

Hanzo folds his arms, trying to maintain a stern look. “What makes you think you have any gifts addressed to you? My bag is awfully light.”

 Genji’s disbelieving grunt obliges him to march up to the dragon carrying the red sack of presents to see for himself. Hanzo’s heart skips a beat when he sees the cyborg touch his dragon without phasing through – it is one more reason to believe it really _is_ his brother Genji of the Shimada family; without special permission from the owner, one outside the family cannot physically touch the spirits.

Walking up to his brother’s side, Hanzo plucks out the labeled gift under Genji’s watchful gaze. “A gift… for you, little brother,” he says, fondness coloring his words. Taking the gift, Genji seems a bit lost for words; if Hanzo could see his face, he would most probably be blinking in astonishment.

Then, Genji scoffs, “Hah. You think I am a fool, brother.” Apprehension begins to set in, and Hanzo worries he’s done something horribly wrong… until he clarifies, “It says ‘From, Winston.’ _You_ did not give me anything!”

It takes a moment to speak past his tight muscles, but Hanzo recovers, and manages to shoot back, with (admittedly) a little dramatic emphasis thrown in, “Well, little one, I am certain you have had _more_ than ample time finding a fitting gift for me…”

A knowing sigh. “You want me to give you my DS.”

“And that Pokémon game you keep ranting about.”

“For the last time, it’s not mine, it’s Hana’s! And it’s an ancient, treasured relic that needs to be treated with the utmost care–”

“As if _I_ am the one that needs such a warning. Must I remind you of the time you broke–”

“If it is agreeable, Bastion has informed me that he is more than willing to provide an emulator operation that is serviceable,” a gentle voice cuts through their bickering. The brothers snap a look at the ever-impassive Zenyatta, who for some reason looks… pleased, if Hanzo’s omnic-reading abilities aren’t too rusty. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

Genji beams at his master, standing straight with pride. “Of course, master! What a courteous gesture!”

Hanzo rolls his eyes, but he’s secretly glad to see his brother in such high spirits, and if this omnic is capable of doing so, then so it is. It’s been hard to admit to himself, but there had been a part of his heart that Hanzo hadn’t realized was savagely scraped off until it began to fill itself again when he reunited with Genji and joined Overwatch, feeling more fulfilled than he has ever been in his life.

And yet, his thoughts always return to a certain cowboy, and how it would be nice to enjoy his company on an occasion like this…

With a start, Hanzo realizes he hasn’t seen McCree anywhere today, and the thought gets him increasingly disturbed as he tries to remember any sign of him in the past few days.

“Genji,” he asks, trying not to let his anxiety become obvious, “have you seen McCree anywhere?”

Genji shakes his head. It does not placate Hanzo’s worries. “I believe you would be the first to know where he has disappeared to.”

He tries not to decipher what that is supposed to mean, but he nods in acknowledgement. “Then I will go find him.”


	2. Found Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo is a man on a mission, pulling out all the stops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally did it guys. Here's the actual good part of the story that you've been waiting for almost 2 months after Christmas ended. Let's pretend it's not February XD
> 
> I managed to make what little angst there was the fluffy type of angst, so don’t worry
> 
> The purpose of this fic is to tell you that the way to Hanzo’s heart is puns. This is his shameful secret.

Living the life of a freelance assassin has granted Hanzo the well-honed ability of tracking an individual that has piqued his attention, and McCree has certainly grabbed his and shaken it to the core. The sun has just begun to set when he approaches a grove of trees on the outskirts of Watchpoint. Stepping through the short grass, he reaches a clearing, opening up to a sheer cliff face that offers a beautiful view of the ocean under a breathtaking view of the horizon. He was just in time for sunset.

However, it seems McCree has been here for much longer. Leaning back on a tree, the cowboy’s legs are stretched out in front of him, hat tipped low over his eyes, but Hanzo could tell in the way his body is tensed that he is far from relaxed. The full bottle of whiskey clutched to his chest is an even bigger giveaway.

“Ya found my hidin’ spot,” comes the deep smooth voice, and Hanzo is almost embarrassed at how much his heart jumps at the sound. “Now if you’d kindly leave, I’d much appreciate it.”

Hanzo swallows, unsure of how to proceed. Carefully, he takes a few steps closer and kneels down. McCree doesn’t stir, which is disquieting. “I know you like to play games, cowboy, but I did not expect you to be fond of hide-and-seek,” he aims for the familiar taste of their banter, but it’s diluted by the softness in his voice.

McCree’s head shoots up, startled by the identity of the visitor. Hanzo can see from his tired brown eyes just how worn out he is, though from what, he doesn’t know. Sputtering, he blurts, “Oh, Hanzo! I… You were the last person I was expecting,” he chuckles nervously, hand automatically going to his hat and tugging it down in greeting. “C’mon, have a seat,” he pats the ground next to him and shifts a little to make room.

Taken aback at the change in mood, Hanzo wordlessly takes a seat next to McCree, sharing the tree he’s leaning on. They stay that way for a few minutes, watching the sun set. All the questions Hanzo had wanted to ask dry up on his tongue and he cannot find anything to say, feeling that his biting, sarcastic banter is most definitely not suitable. But at the same time the silence is deafening to him.

McCree turns his head to look at Hanzo and he belatedly realizes that he’s been staring. A small, wistful smile graces McCree’s lips. “This time of year… gets me thinkin’ ‘bout a lotta things,” he says vaguely. He looks down at his whiskey bottle thoughtfully. “Sometimes a man’s just gotta disappear from the crowd for a little while. Sorry if any of y’all were worried. I know how much of a grump I get, an’ I didn’t wanna sour the mood. Call me Scrooge…” The low laugh he gives rumbles all the way to Hanzo’s stomach, but it’s somber and melancholy and so unlike the gunslinger’s usual laugh.

McCree’s ramblings are disjointed, but Hanzo doesn’t want to tell him how to deal with his own personal business. “Take all the time you need,” he squeezes McCree’s shoulder, hoping to convey his understanding. They sit in silence once again, Hanzo uncertain of what to do.

“Oh, uh, Hanzo,” McCree’s distracted voice calls. The body next to him fumbles, various layers of his clothing shifting around. He looks like he’s trying to find something. “I know I’m not the best company to be around but…” Finally, he fishes out a long strip of red. “I wanna give you something.”

The smile he gives is hopeful as Hanzo takes the soft cloth, fingers making short-lived contact with rough, calloused ones. The ribbon is about as long as Hanzo’s own yellow hair tie with the same dimensions, except this one is dyed in a bright red about the same color as McCree’s serape. There are tiny bells sewn at the tips.

Speaking past the mixture of shock and gratitude in his throat, Hanzo manages, “It’s…” He searches for the right word. “Gaudy.”

McCree quirks an eyebrow. “I’m glad you like it.”

Hanzo frowns. Untying his existing ribbon, he replaces it with the new one. Securing it tight elicits a faint jingle. “It’s very festive. And obnoxious. There is no doubt it is a gift from you.”

This time McCree laughs, genuinely. The fact that Hanzo has nothing to give in return strikes him unawares, and he feels a burning sensation climbing up his cheeks at being caught in such an embarrassing situation. He had been so busy; it was a miracle _Winston_ had managed to find the time to get something special for each and every agent, while just the preparations themselves occupied most of Hanzo’s free time.

A small surprised noise from McCree makes him sharply look up from his thoughts. He’s staring unblinkingly above the tree line behind Hanzo, expression incomprehensible. Hanzo follows his gaze, and sighs long-sufferingly at the sight of both of his dragons peeking directly at the pair over the packed line of trees; like two cats too curious for their own good, even as he praises their perfect timing.

“Howdy, fellas. I do believe we’ve met before.” To no one’s surprise, it seems McCree has picked his jaw up back from the floor and has gone straight to flirting with his dragons.

Hanzo stands, offering his hand to help McCree up. “Indeed you have, but only when they are consumed in the heat of battle. This is them in their calmest form,” Hanzo explains. He watches the obvious wonder unfold as McCree observes the dragons step over the trees and squeeze themselves in the already-cramped clearing.

“Do ya have names for them?” McCree holds a hand out to touch one and looks decidedly displeased when it passes through the form.

“I do, but I don’t really use them. It depends on how I am feeling.” The dragons blow large puffs of air into McCree’s face as they sniff him. Another absurd idea starts to form in his head.

“Hmm… I’m thinkin’ Bonnie an’ Clyde. Maybe… Clint an’ Eastwood? Nah. Oh!” he exclaims, snapping his fingers comically. “How ‘bout Peanut Butter and Jelly?”

“If you must know, I have decided on the names Hoshi and Issun for now,” he murmurs distractedly. Then, before he can stop himself, Hanzo marches up to McCree and requests, “Give me your hand.”

McCree turns to face Hanzo. Taking a deep breath to calm the nerves that have jumpstarted under his skin for the third time today, Hanzo continues, “Your right hand, to be specific. Admittedly, it would be an intriguing experiment to see if it would work with your left, but it is my first time doing this.”

His dragons, sensing his plan, roar encouragingly. McCree smiles, more reassuringly than Hanzo expects, and walks up to him, gait swaggering. “What exactly is ‘this’?” he asks with trepidation, even as he lets his hand be held firmly in between Hanzo’s.

Instead of explaining, Hanzo says in his most soothing voice, “Just relax. I promise it will not hurt.” Eyes drifting closed in concentration, his tattoo begins to glow as he directs the spirit dragon’s energy into their clasped hands. McCree gasps, but doesn’t pull away. Hanzo is struck by how much McCree trusts him. The ceremony only takes a few moments.

“Whoa.” McCree shakes his head a little, then mutters, “that was… somethin’ else.” Hanzo steps back, watching with faint amusement as McCree inspects his hand with a bewildered expression on his face, aware that something has happened but unable to put a finger as to exactly what.

Then, steeling himself to wipe away the last of his indecision, Hanzo lifts himself onto the dragon’s back, extending a hand towards McCree. “Well?”

The cowboy pauses, looking up at Hanzo. He takes a few slow steps forward and places a hand on the dragon’s body, mouth agape when it rests on solid scales. Then with one swift motion he grabs Hanzo’s outstretched hand and pulls himself up, surprisingly graceful for the bulky man.

“I get to ride a dragon? _Hell_ yeah, sign me up!” McCree whoops loudly. Pausing, he glances about. “Um, are you sure I won’t fall off and plummet to my death without some sort of saddle here? I mean, no disrespect to your dragons, they’re not yer steeds or anythin’ like that…”

“It is not necessary,” Hanzo stops his hasty backtracking before he lodges his foot in his mouth any longer. Though, it does pique his curiosity when he pictures a young Jesse McCree on a horse. Perhaps he’ll ask later. “Just hold on and the dragons will not let you fall.”

“You _really_ like to live dangerously–”

It’s all the warning Hanzo gives before he launches them into the air at full speed. Hanzo has done this enough times today to make him think he’s prepared for the now-familiar rush of air as they gain height. But then the brim of McCree’s hat pokes into his neck and Hanzo’s breath hitches as a broad forehead nuzzles into his shoulder blade. His back prickles under his shirt when he senses a spreading smile, wild and scared yet exhilarated at the same time. McCree’s arms encircle his waist and clamp down tight, strong and warm and most definitely not letting go anytime soon. Hanzo makes the absurd connection that it feels he’s caught in one of Junkrat’s bear traps. Before he knows it his own smile soon mirrors McCree’s.

Eventually they level off and slow to a rhythmic glide in the cool air of the evening. The blue aura humming from the dragon’s body is more than enough to compensate for the fading light, a sustaining heat radiating up to the two riders to ward off any unpleasant chill. However Hanzo only has his attention fixated on each and every movement made by his passenger, only just aware that his posture has been perfectly straight since takeoff.

McCree raises his head off from his shoulder. It sounds like he’s gulping down a few deep breaths. “You are so lucky I’m used to Lena flying her dropships like her own personal stuntplane otherwise things would be a lot messier, if you catch my drift,” he groans out, still recovering. The arms haven’t let go from his waist, but the tension in them has certainly decreased enough to placate Hanzo’s concerns.

The pained comment earns a chuckle from Hanzo. “If you really want to hear about fancy flying, I can tell you about the time Genji used to often challenge me to race my dragon against his.” He tilts his head, remembering. “It would only inflate his ego every time he won, which was quite a common occurrence. Actually, it was one of the few things he was more enthusiastic in our formal training. Still, the Elders had mixed feelings on the strong bond he and his dragon shared: playing pranks was not fitting with the esteemed Shimada reputation…”

The little anecdote slips out, but he finds that it doesn’t stir up as much guilt and shame as he thought it might bringing up his disgraced past. In fact, it’s almost a nice change of pace to revisit the memories he shared with his brother without being overwhelmed by the constant trauma. Plus, Hanzo gets the sense that McCree is hanging onto every word he’s saying, considering how closemouthed he’s been despite many attempts at getting him to open up before. And yet, up here his problems don’t seem so troublesome.

Hanzo swings his legs saddleside, facing the rapidly dwindling sunset. After a bit of awkward shuffling, McCree does the same. “So,” he inflects, and Hanzo can practically _hear_ the eyebrows waggling, “you seem happy. Must be the company.”

Hanzo snorts, “You flatter yourself too much, cowboy.” Though now that he thinks on it, it’s not necessarily untrue.

“Naw, I wasn’t talking about me.” McCree leans in closer, a mischievous grin on his face. “I’m willin’ to bet it’s ‘cause the holiday _spirits_ visited you.”

For one long beat, all Hanzo can process is the insufferably smug grin. Until the pun catches up to him and he surprises himself with the bubble of laughter. “Not bad, McCree,” he manages in between suppressed snickers. “Well executed…”

A weird half-smile twitches with disbelief on McCree’s face. He shakes his head incredulously, “The last thing I was expectin’ was that you’d be some sort of pun connoisseur…” He pats the scales underneath him. “So does our buddy always look like this or do they normally materialize with cheap fuzzy antlers on their head? ‘Cause I coulda sworn I thought I lost those.”

“Seriously?” Hanzo deadpans, rolling his eyes. “They are yours?”

“Uh, well now, they were Fareeha’s. When she was a lil’ kiddo,” he tries to backpedal, hand quickly shooting up to rub at his beard. Hanzo knows enough about the man to say with confidence that Jesse McCree is not the type to embarrass easily, if at all. Still, his eyes are downturned, almost abashed. On a man of his size, it’s strangely adorable.

The fact that he’s embarrassed because of something like Hanzo’s offhand dismissive comment hits him like a brick and he hates himself for being so insensitive, though why he would care what Hanzo thinks is beyond him. Still, he lays a light hand on his shoulder. “My apologies. I did not mean to make fun of something you clearly enjoyed and made fond memories with, especially with Fareeha. It was not my intention.”

Even before he finishes his sentence McCree’s shaking his head, offering him a smile. “No offense taken, partner. Actually,” he eyes the antlers, “I’d be mighty pleased if I could take ‘em off your hands for a bit. I think Overwatch would benefit immensely from the return of Fareeha the Rampaging Reindeer.” From the wicked look in his eye it seems he’s going to looking forward to that.

“Of course,” agrees Hanzo readily, entertaining the vision of a ridiculous antler-wearing cowboy and the ever-patient Fareeha. The wind raises goosebumps on his skin as Hanzo slides down his hand from McCree’s shoulder a little too reluctantly, finding himself inching closer to him, a pleasant spicy smell tingling his senses. Heartbeat quickening, he wills himself to look for a distraction. After spending a great deal of focus on taking off his hair tie Hanzo leans his head back, letting the wind whistle through the long locks as he combs them with his fingers.

“Aw c’mon now, ya can’t be sick of it already. I swear you only have that one yellow ribbon.” McCree’s disappointed voice drawls to an astounding degree, even as his gaze is clear and unwavering on Hanzo.

“McCree… Jesse,” Hanzo falters for a moment, meeting McCree’s intense gaze. His eyes are very rich shade of brown, Hanzo notices. “Do not be so uncertain. I truly am grateful for your thoughtfulness. If nothing else, I appreciate the gesture,” he adds with a soft smile. He wraps the red ribbon around his forearm, tying it off, since none of his clothing has pockets. “Also, keeping hair tied up for long periods of time is a pain in the ass.”

Hanzo can’t figure out why he’s so fixated on McCree and why he’s going out of his way to analyze every little action he does today, but something twinges uncomfortably in the middle of his chest, pulling at his being. Plucking at the ribbon, he gets up and stretches out, trying to relieve some of the tension.

Well, attempts to, at least. A hand shoots out, grabbing his calf and almost making him lose his balance. “What the– Don’t stand! Are you nuts?”

Hanzo scowls down at McCree. “And what, is wrong with standing?”

“Oh, I dunno, just that we’re flying a few _hundred_ feet in the air. Ya know, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“You need not worry yourself,” Hanzo tries to scoff, but truthfully he really _did_ forget; his thoughts are growing increasingly scattered for some reason. “We are safe under the protection of the dragon spirits.”

“And what kind of protection do dragon spirits give against fallin’ to your death?” McCree petulantly demands.

“Would you like for them to demonstrate their skills?” Hanzo asks innocently, amused by the glare McCree gives him.

“Some trust fall…”

This time, Hanzo doesn’t even try to stop the impulse decision that grabs him, noting with satisfaction the startled look on McCree’s face as he abruptly pulls him up onto his feet. He bumps bodily against Hanzo.

“Hey–! Oof.”

Before McCree’s legs turn to jello Hanzo tightens his grip, steadying him. “Keep still. Now, was that so hard?” He can’t help but inject a note of self-assuredness in his voice, even as he can hardly keep his hands off the man pressed up to him for support. With a great will of effort he brushes past McCree, smoothing down his shirt.

“One step at a time, cowboy,” he says aloud to hear himself above his pounding heart, clenching his hands to his sides. “If you’re so faint of heart, then I suggest you don’t look down.” There’s silence behind him. He imagines McCree does it anyway, most likely just to spite him.

The taunts are fun, and Hanzo is beginning to feel like things are going back to normal until a hand slips into his; Hanzo stills, automatically tensing, before being riveted to the spot by McCree’s stare, hesitant yet determined.

Jesse takes a few tentative steps forward, relaxing his posture so that he almost engulfs Hanzo with his presence. “You may’ve been born with your head in the air, but I’m more of a down-to-earth guy myself.” His tone is light, face shining with the blue ethereal glow, rugged features softening. Mesmerized, Hanzo loses himself in counting the freckles on McCree’s neck. How has he not seen them before?

“What, suddenly you’re too good for my puns?” Jesse’s eyes don’t waver from the locks of dark hair that frame Hanzo’s unblinking expression.

Hanzo is panicking, but it’s not like any panic he’s experienced before, whether on the battlefield or anticipating the constant judgment of his family’s Elders; right now it’s more thrilling, a rapid rush of frayed nerves that feels almost _giddy_ as the blood throbbing to his head drowns out nearly everything except McCree. In the corner of his eye, he sees something. An imperceptible smile tugs at his lips.

Loosening his stance, Hanzo wraps his free arm around Jesse, pulling the man closer. His stomach flips as certain emotions surge through him. “Do you trust me?”

Jesse, lost for words, nods mutely.

Hanzo cackles, loudly and mischievously, and absolutely _savors_ the wide-eyed look McCree fixes him. “In this case, you probably shouldn’t.”

Pushing off the edge, Hanzo steadfastly keeps his eyes trained on the man gripping him tight, relishing every single detail of McCree’s horrified expression as the two plummet from the relative safety of the semi-solid form of Hanzo’s dragon, hair whipping madly. Hanzo smiles serenely at the sight of McCree’s yelling and frantic gripping of his hat.

It’s the most fun he’s had in years.

Just when they’re beginning to pick up speed, however, instead of crashing into the hard metal surface of Watchpoint, the pair thud harmlessly into an almost gelatinous yet sturdy form less than five seconds later. A moment later, the deep rumble of a grunt travels through them, the second dragon expressing a token amount of annoyance at being used as a giant cushion.

While the impact knocks the wind out of Hanzo, poor McCree sounds like he’s been through the wringer, eyes scrunched shut with an equally pained expression, hooded as it is mostly tucked under Hanzo’s chest. Without thinking he places a hand on McCree’s cheek, nudging it upward, slightly worried that his little prank may have scarred him for life. “Jesse? Are you okay–”

“You dramatic lil’ shit!” Wrenching his eyes open, McCree puts on what Hanzo has identified as his signature pout, which he will deny to his dying breath. “I’m seriously wonderin’ if you’ll ever stop gettin’ the drop on me...”

Shifting his body experimentally, McCree draws out a groan, flinching when he curves his back. Hanzo watches his chest expand, unconsciously breathing in tandem, taking his time in dragging his eyes up to McCree’s flushed face.

“Dragon-hopping was yet another activity I excelled at.” What was supposed to be a boastful comment is quieted to a murmur, a severe longing gripping his words, making them dry on his tongue. The mood has shifted, and perhaps for the first time in his life Hanzo is fully aware of the world condensing to a single point, and yet he is unable ( _unwilling_ ) to rip his eyes away.

McCree purses his lips, thoughtful realization furrowing his eyebrows in a way Hanzo has never seen him do before. He utters, “Then I’ve been in safe hands all along,” and then does the unthinkable and holds Hanzo’s clasped hands in his own, cradles them close, placing a tender kiss in between the knuckles.

Warmth blooms from the contact, down his arm, and speeds towards his chest, choking him with emotion. It becomes too much, too much to handle when a thumb strokes careful circles on the back of his hand; it’s wonderful and cloying, like a too-sweet flower. But instead of suffocating he wants more, more of _Jesse_ and his infectious happiness and kind heart and corny jokes and compassion: all communicated through that one little kiss.

But Jesse’s head only droops lower, face hooded from sight. Grip tightening, his breath comes awkward and irregular, deep and shallow. Steadily, the dragon pressed under their cheeks starts purring a soothing pulse.

Bit by bit, Hanzo comes back to himself. “Jesse?” he cautiously asks. “Are you alright?”

At Hanzo’s voice, McCree stiffens. Then, he pulls his hat even further down. “Y… Yeah. ‘M fine.”

The shaky voice stirs something deep within Hanzo, giving him the courage to slide a hand under McCree’s cheek, tenderly lifting to meet his gaze. His heart constricts painfully when he spies tears threatening to fall.

His eyes are downcast, unwilling to maintain contact. “‘S just,” he sniffs noisily, “the last time I remember havin’ such a blast like this was in Blackwatch with Gabe ‘n the others. After that, usually my Christmases were… well, pretty solitary affairs,” he chuckles weakly, futilely trying to offset the tension.

“I miss Gabe,” he swipes an arm across his face, clumsily reddening it with his palm. Hanzo has the feeling he isn’t being told the whole picture, but what matters is that whatever’s been bothering McCree is finally out in the open. “I miss them all. I miss being part of a family. Aw, hell…” Jesse glances up, struggling to stem the fresh outburst that’s about to come. And yet, through all that he manages to flash the tiniest of smiles, however shaky, towards Hanzo.

Why he does this, Hanzo does not know. All he can think about is the choking vise on his lungs and burning sensation behind his eyes, fueling his next actions, unable to stop and think it through. Hanzo leans in slowly, carefully, nose bumping against prickling stubble before settling into a kiss. He keeps it to a touch, unwilling to press forward until McCree eases into it with a natural motion, eagerness undisguised.

They break away unhurriedly, McCree’s satisfied grin looking a bit out of place amid puffy eyes and red cheeks. Unwinding the ribbon tied around his arm Hanzo uses it to wipe off any lingering wetness, laughing breathlessly. “After all of this, how is your god forsaken hat still on?”

The tremor rumbling deep within those words gives McCree pause, swallowing hard as he attempts to voice, “I’m so sorry for putting you through all that. See, this is what I’m tryin’ ta avoid; I gotta be the best damn cowboy the world has ever seen, and that does not include breakin’ down on short notice,” he jokes feebly.

“I understand completely.” And boy, did Hanzo know how it felt to be under threat of unstable emotions. “But you are not alone anymore, nor do you have to bear such burdens alone.”

A hand rests over his own, squeezing softly. “Guess I’m not,” admits McCree, and there’s a promise in his words to keep it that way.

Hanzo stares down at the ribbon without looking at it, coming to terms with the whirlwind of commotion of the past few minutes which seem like an eternity. Idly, he wonders how Genji used to deal with all these tiresome feelings, until one look at Jesse is all it takes to make it worth the effort. However, he does make a rather embarrassing discovery.

“I... don’t have a gift for you.”

Hanzo fidgets under Jesse’s confusion. “In exchange for yours. It was thoughtless of me not to respond in kind.”

“Aw darlin’, you don’t need to give me anything. That’s what the Christmas spirit’s all about,” Jesse insists. “Besides I do have a gift, and it’s you.”

Hanzo pretends to ponder this. “Actually, you’re right.”

The faster than anticipated admission catches Jesse off-guard, doing a double take. “Say what now?”

“The gift,” Hanzo supplies, pausing.

McCree nods.

“It is me.”

A blank stare, followed by a raise of eyebrows.

“Get it?”

He’s not getting it.

“Because I have a bow,” Hanzo mimes using a bow, and then immediately feels stupid for doing that.

Hanzo gives it a second to sink in. Then, “Because you have a _bow_!” Jesse bellows, unhelpfully, mind blown. Turning on his back, he curls an arm around Hanzo’s shoulders, nestling him close to his side. They lay looking up at the stars, Jesse whispering ‘wow’ every so often: whether from the pun or this newfound relationship they’ve made, Hanzo doesn’t figure out; either way, his cheeks hurt from smiling.

“Say,” announces Jesse, “I still have a whole bottle ‘a whiskey that needs drinkin’. Whaddya think?”

It’s almost scary how quickly they lock eyes in unison.

______

“…Is that so?”

The muffled voice makes its way to Hanzo’s consciousness, surfacing sluggishly to wakefulness. Peculiarly, it’s more difficult than usual to snap awake as is his habit, an enveloping warmth tempting him to burrow in deeper to the source. Dimly, he realizes he is most definitely not in his room; still, he feels safe, having no inclination to move.

The pleasant buzz in his head soon reminds him where he is; Jesse and he had decided to retire to the main common area, passing the whiskey bottle back and forth, and complimenting Hanzo’s interior decorating before curling up in a drunken haze on the corner of the sofa, sloppy kisses and murmured endearments exchanged until they drifted off towards slumber. A blessing that Watchpoint was empty, they filled the empty room with unburdened laughter and traded stories of cherished few holidays, too focused on one another to notice if anyone passed by, uncaring if they did.

He gives in to sinking back into the rise and fall of the body next to him, which quashes any valiant effort to wake up, pressing his face into the heavenly soft flannel of Jesse’s collar and sighing contently. Jesse stirs in his alcohol-induced sleep, automatically pulling him in closer. His leg taps the empty bottle abandoned on the floor. It echoes in the quiet of the room.

Hanzo is a little annoyed at the soft “ _oh_ ” that reaches his ears. He cracks one eye open in order to sate his curiosity (and maybe grumble a little at the newcomer to go away).

Ana is there standing in front of the Christmas tree, still outfitted in her multilayered robes and hood, rifle slung over her shoulder. Looking over her shoulder at the pair, she laughs kindly and leans over to whisper something to Winston.

Ah, they must’ve just come back from the mission, Hanzo deduces. They talk quietly amongst themselves and though Winston looks tired, there’s no mistaking the sense of pride when he scans the room. In an effort to be polite, Hanzo attempts to sit up and greet them courteously, but all he manages to do is sink deeper into the couch and loudly hum. Right. He is still very much drunk.

Winston lumbers off, most likely in for a long night of analyzing the data they retrieved in his office. Ana, however, steps over to the couch, tired smile in place. Hanzo is observant enough to see the quick glance she casts McCree, a multitude of emotions flashing by before it’s hidden in an instant.

It looks as if she has so many things to say. But all she does is lay an overworked hand on McCree’s arm and say something in Arabic, low and comforting. Bending down to pick up something, she turns to leave, footsteps tapping off into the dark.

“The secret to a dependable hat...”

Too drowsy to decipher all the details of the night Hanzo is halfway ready to drift off to sleep when Jesse mumbles, lips grazing his forehead in a lazy kiss. Maybe he’s just imagining it, but Hanzo swears there’s a profound wisdom in his amber gaze, unmistakable affection directed to him and only him even as he’s quickly losing the fight to keep his drooping eyelids open. He yawns, nosing Hanzo’s hair, “…is a snug fit.”

Feeling his hold on awareness slipping, Hanzo leaves the thinking for tomorrow, counting and recounting the freckles on Jesse’s collarbone. Lulled into a rhythm, he falls asleep.

Christmas should be fun this year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So who’s the dependable hat and who’s the snug fit in the relationship (these are the jokes, people)
> 
> As much I love fics where Hanzo cries McCree should too: it's only fair :D
> 
> Ana took the antlers. The only real reconciliation for the Amaris is through embarrassing your child by dredging up mortifying Christmas traditions ("Fareeha you still like this, right?" MOM I'M 30)


End file.
